


Once Bitten, Twice Shy

by tastethewaste



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Child Death, Depression, Eating Disorders, F/M, Gen, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 15:57:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18641332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastethewaste/pseuds/tastethewaste
Summary: Harry experiences a terrible loss and convinces himself it's better for him to go it alone...until Draco comes along and helps wake him up.





	Once Bitten, Twice Shy

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for a challenge on FF.net titled "All Things Tragic", so the angst and hurt/comfort might be a little strong with this one. This is also some of the first fic I've written in quite a while, so my jumping back into fandom might not be as smooth as I'd have liked it to be. Thanks for reading!

Harry sits in his compact car, the windows all tightly rolled up despite the mild spring breeze he knows is wafting outside. It’s the first day in months that hasn’t made everyone feel like winter will go on forever; the slush idling on the streets and sidewalks has melted, the trees are beginning to bud and it smells like spring outside. All the Muggles in London have shed their jackets and they shiver just a bit in their short-sleeved shirts. 

But Harry’s shut himself away from most of it. 

He’s sitting in his car in the Mexican restaurant parking lot, and he’s eating a chicken burrito. The beautiful spring day hasn’t been entirely unnoticed by Harry, and he’s decided that eating his dinner in the parking lot, staring at a beautiful day, would be better than eating in his dark, dingy flat. It is the most effort he’s willing to make. So he’s here, watching everyone else walk around and converse with their loved ones, while he eats a greasy burrito and sucks on a cold soda. He checks the time; another 20 minutes and he can feel okay about going home and watching TV for the rest of the night. The realization that he is forcing himself to stay out prompts him to think about his life, something he tries to do sparingly. 

It’s been almost seven months to the day since Harry gave up his Wizarding life and moved to Muggle London. He hasn’t seen a single soul from his old life since then. He’s completely dropped off the map, ignored every letter and spoken to no one. No one knows where he is, and that’s the way he likes it. Seven months ago, he lived through the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, and his response was to run. He left his friends, his job, his home and his wife, and he hasn’t looked back. He hasn’t so much as cast a single spell in seven months.

He works a crappy desk job doing data entry for a large firm; they don’t care about him beyond his output and he doesn’t care about them beyond his paycheck. It’s the most functional and consistent relationship in his life. He mostly keeps to himself at work, eating his bland lunches at his desk and entering his reports. He exchanges pleasantries with his coworkers in the break room when he needs more coffee. They ask him what he’s done over the weekend, and he makes up stories about friends he no longer has and hobbies he doesn’t actually participate in. 

Despite what Harry tells his colleagues, when work is done, he heads home alone. He lives in a small, sparsely furnished flat in London. There’s a living room, a small dining area, a kitchen, a bathroom and his bedroom. There is zero wasted space, and it is small and contained. Harry doesn’t care what it looks like because Harry just doesn’t care anymore. No one comes to his flat, and he doesn’t go see anyone. Every evening after work, he watches television. He fills his small flat with the sounds of sitcoms, of home renovation shows, of quiz bowl games. 

While he does this, he either eats everything in sight or nothing at all. Sometimes he stares at the television, enjoying the feeling of his empty stomach gnawing at itself. On those nights, he relishes in the hollow feeling of his empty body which now matches the way he feels in his head. Other nights he makes meals of everything he can find. He stocks his cupboards with bags upon bags of greasy potato chips, thick grocery store cookies in plastic sleeves, crunchy cereals with lots of sugar. His fridge is full of cookie dough in tubes, beer and pudding. His freezer is stuffed full of family-size frozen pizzas, giant tubs of ice cream, and calorically-rich frozen dinners that come with three sides and a dessert. 

He looks down at the insistent belly he’s grown; the scale last week said he’s put on 33 pounds since he moved here. He is unkind to his body in this small, dark life he has built for himself in Muggle London, but it’s the way he likes it. It’s what he deserves, you know. At least, that is what he has spent a good long while telling himself.

Harry crunches on an ice cube from his soda, and gathers the trash from his meal back into the bag it came in. He starts his small car and carefully backs out of his parking space; that’s enough trying for one day. 

_Break_

Sometimes, Harry gets a spur of confidence. It doesn’t happen very often, but sometimes a small kernel of optimism wriggles its way into his brain, and he feels almost like his Before self. His old self. This happens to him a month after the chicken burrito, while he’s finishing up his work for the day. 

Maybe it’s the sunshine, as real spring has finally settled in. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s Friday, and he’s off for the weekend. Maybe it’s because he’s just finished a big project at work that’s been weighing heavily on his mind. Whatever the reason, Harry is feeling Okay, and he’s decided to run with it. 

The clock strikes five, and Harry turns off his computer and collects his things. He says a rare, cheery goodbye to the man who sits at the desk opposite him and heads out the door. He’ll stop at the pub on the way home, he decides. He’ll have a beer or two, and maybe he’ll even make conversation with someone. _It might be nice to try to make a friend around here,_ he thinks, _and try to not be so lonely._ He walks briskly around the corner and into the pub, smiling at the barkeep. He orders a beer at the bar and waits. Once his beer arrives, he sits down at a vacant table, takes a sip and surveys the area around him. 

It’s as he’s surveying the room that Harry sees him, and his heart starts to thud, out of control, in his chest.

_Break_

Draco has traveled to Muggle London under Ministry orders to perform some Memory Charms on a few Muggles that had been involved in an unfortunate incident with a Dark wizard. Everything has gone smoothly and the criminal in question has been apprehended. All memories have been modified, broken-into homes have been restored to their original state, and all is well. But it isn’t easy work, being an Auror, it never is, and Draco is tired.

Draco’s son, Scorpius, is with his ex-wife, Astoria, that week, and so Draco has a free evening without his two year old. He is on his way to a safe place to Apparate back to his home when he spies the tiny pub. It’s a small, hole-in-the-wall place, that probably serves greasy food and crappy beer. And it feels like exactly what he needs after a long day.

He walks in, sits down and orders a drink before spying him at the bar, leaning their casually and waiting for his beer. _Harry Potter._ Draco lets out a breath. It seems impossible, but he’s found Harry Potter in this crappy Muggle bar. 

Draco watches as Harry takes his beverage from the barkeep and maneuvers his way through the throng of people to an empty table that is impossibly close to his own. People have been searching for Harry for eight months, and Draco has just stumbled upon him. It feels like...Merlin, it feels like fate, something he never would have admitted to believing in.

Mere moments after sitting down, Harry looks up and sees him. His face pales and he looks down and away, as though he can stop Draco from recognizing him. But Draco won’t allow that, not at all. 

“Potter?” Draco calls. He gets up and immediately comes over, sliding into the vacant seat across from him. “Well, I must say, it’s certainly a surprise to run into you here, of all places.” 

Harry sighs and takes a long drink from his beer, finally looking up again and meeting Draco’s eyes. “What are you doing here, Malfoy? What do you want?” 

“Ministry business. I spotted this place on my way home and popped in for a drink. Are you living ‘round here now?” 

“That’s none of your business,” Harry murmurs, a slight blush creeping to his cheeks. He is ashamed of his life and himself, and that is why he hasn’t spoken to anyone in the last eight months. 

“No, I suppose it’s not,” Draco says in an offhand manner. “But it’s been a real mystery as to where you wandered of to, you know, and I can think of several people who might be really interested to know...Ron, Hermione, maybe even...Ginny?” 

Harry closes his eyes. It hurts to hear Ginny’s name, rolled off of Draco Malfoy’s tongue so innocently, as if he doesn’t understand that leaving her and their life had been the final nail in the coffin for their marriage. How could he know that, though? How could anyone? 

“Stop. You can’t tell anyone you’ve seen me, okay? Please promise,” Harry pleads, his emerald eyes meeting Draco’s ice blue ones. 

“Why should I, Potter?” 

“To be, I don’t know, decent for once? We’re not children anymore, Malfoy, we’re grown men and I...I don’t want to be found,” Harry said bitterly, his fingers probing the bowl of peanuts on the table.

Draco eyes a nervous Harry. “Listen, I won’t tell anyone I saw you if you just tell me what happened.” 

Harry snapped his head up. “What would you possibly want to know what happened for?” 

“I’ve grown curious of you in my old age, Potter, what can I say?” Draco says, sipping his beer. 

“My life isn’t a movie for you to watch or a novel for you to enjoy. I just want to be alone, and this is how I’ve chosen to do it,” Harry says flatly. 

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. I’m simply wondering what life looks like for The Boy Who Lived now that everything’s fallen apart, that’s all. I’ll derive no pleasure from it, I promise.” 

Harry is taken aback at the casual cruelty in Draco’s words; in fact, he actually moves back slightly, unable to believe that after all this time, Draco still hated him enough to revel in his pain. “Am I really nothing but a show for you, Malfoy? All dramatics aside of course. Do you really not understand why I left my family, my friends, and magic behind?” Harry takes a deep breath. “I know you know what happened. Everyone does. You know what happened to my kids.” 

Malfoy pales a bit, remembering Harry’s children, it all flooding back to him. “Merlin, Potter, I--”

Harry is silent for a brief moment. This man has forgotten. This man has forgotten what’s happened, forgotten the very thing that ruined Harry’s (and Ginny’s) life, the very thing that has ripped everything apart. There are people out there who have the luxury of forgetting what happened, Harry realizes with a jolt. _Not everyone is consumed by that day and those moments. Everyone’s world didn’t stop turning, only ours did._

“Harry, I...really, I forgot. I’m sorry. You can’t know how sorry I am,” Draco mutters, reaching a hand out and touching Harry’s gently. Harry jerks his hand away, almost knocking his beer over in the process. 

“My children are Dead, Malfoy. Both of my sons. They drowned together in that goddamn lake, and now they’re Dead. And this is how I’ve chosen to get away from that. Please excuse me.” Harry drains his glass, slams it down, and strides out of the pub. 

It isn’t in Harry’s nature to use magic anymore, and he’s on a busy Muggle street, besides that. It doesn’t occur to him to duck down an alley and Apparate back to his flat, because he can’t imagine the necessity to do so. Malfoy won’t follow him; why would he? Their conversation is over. He can only hope that he won’t return to the Ministry and crow to all his pals about scorned, embarrassed Harry Potter, living a broken life in Muggle London, drinking alone in dingy pubs and hiding from the world. 

His good mood from earlier is gone, replaced by one that’s worse than usual. Seeing Malfoy has rocked him to his core; up until now, you see, Harry’s been able to feign ignorance and pretend his old life had never existed. Seeing Malfoy has made things worse. He can no longer pretend, and he is forced to remember the events that drove him to this existence. 

Even worse, it has been _Malfoy_ that has shattered his facade. 

If it had been Ginny, it would’ve been one thing. They had shared a life together, a home, a family. They had experienced the tragedy together, and though they were apart now, it would’ve made sense if it had been her to find him in that pub. But Draco Malfoy? It feels...uncomfortable. It feels as though Harry has been caught in public with his pants down around his ankles. 

He tries to shove all thoughts of Malfoy out of his head as he continues his walk to his flat, but to no avail. He obsesses over it the whole way home, wondering if Malfoy will tell, wondering if he’ll have Ron banging down his door tomorrow morning. He lets himself into the building and takes the stairs to the second floor. Once he’s standing outside of his flat, he rummages through his pockets for his keys, and sticks the key into the lock. That’s it, this is done, he thinks. _I’ll fix myself a big bowl of ice cream, and watch TV, and turn out all the lights._ The thought is a thick blanket of comfort over his body until he feels Draco’s hand rest lightly on his shoulder.

_Break_

As soon as Harry leaves the pub, Draco’s on his feet and following him. He doesn’t do it consciously; there’s no thought, no telling himself that he’ll follow Harry until he can resolve what’s just happened. He just does it, plowing through the dark night silently behind him. 

Draco is a poor spy; Malfoys were made to be seen _and_ heard, you know. He makes far too much noise, tripping on uneven sidewalks and cursing under his breath. Several times he sniffs or coughs against his own will, and every time he thinks Harry will turn around and confront him. But it seems Harry’s too lost in his own thoughts to notice that he’s being followed. 

Draco’s not following Harry down a crowded Muggle sidewalk, though. In Draco’s mind, he’s loping after Harry down a corridor at Hogwarts. In his mind, Harry turns back and flashes those damn green eyes at him. They aren’t turning the corner just now, they are entering a deserted classroom and charming the locks shut. It’s as if no time has passed at all; it’s as if they are two fifth year boys, pretending to be enemies, sneaking off to be alone so they can explore every inch of each other. 

Their relationship had lasted the better part of fifth and sixth year, completely secret from everyone. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy weren’t supposed to like each other. They were supposed to be mortal enemies, sworn to hate each other forever. They were not supposed to like each other, and they were definitely _not_ supposed to love each other. Draco had never admitted it to anyone, not even Harry, but he’d been in love. He’d loved the way Harry’s hair always fell into his eyes, and his unkempt appearance. He’d loved the way he could tell Harry anything and he’d never laugh. He loved that they were both exploring a relationship neither had ever considered. 

And then it had ended, abruptly and suddenly, the evening that Dumbledore died. Harry blamed Draco, and there had been a big fight, and they swore to never speak again. As Draco skirts around the corner after his old paramour, he remembers the angry gleam in Harry’s eyes, and his words. _“You’re a bloody coward and I never want to see you again!”_ Words that had stung more than Draco has ever admitted to anyone. He fully intended on never speaking to Potter again.

But then there had been that brief month long fling shortly after they both started at the Ministry, that had been little more than two young wizards having sex in supply closets and Draco’s sparsely furnished flat. The passion between them had been so intense that at times it scared Draco, because Harry was almost desperate for love and affection. They were both still badly wounded from the war, on the inside at least, and fucking each other raw on Draco’s tiny kitchen table seemed to help. 

But then Harry had met Ginny (in a way that was different from knowing her as his best friend’s kid sister), Draco had met Astoria, and they’d parted ways and started their families. This time there was no big blow-up, just a simple mutual agreement that whatever-this-was had been fun, but they had fallen in love with other people. They had kissed, and that was that. It was surprisingly uncomplicated, and there was no bad blood.

Draco hadn’t so much as thought of Harry in that way in quite a few years. The only way he’d thought of Harry was as a coworker at the Ministry, and then with pity in his mind, after news had spread that Harry’s two young sons, James and Albus, had drowned in a small lake that the family had been vacationing at. Albus had been the same age as Draco’s own small son, Scorpius, and he remembers holding his boy just a little bit tighter the day he had found out that bit of news. 

As Harry slides his key into the lock, Draco gently lays a hand on Harry’s shoulder. 

_“You followed me home?”_ Harry asks incredulously, shoving the door open and trying to go in. Draco sticks his foot in the door.

“Listen, let me come in, Potter,” Draco says gently. 

“You’re stalking me. It’s weird and creepy, get out of here,” Harry murmurs, but Draco can tell he doesn’t mean it. Despite the number of years since the last time they’d been together, Draco recognizes the old Harry, the one from after the war. He takes a deep breath and pushes his way in.

“Hey!” Harry yelps as Draco pushes him aside. He casts a look around the dingy, dark flat, taking note of the lack of decor and thick layers of dust on everything. It isn’t like Draco’s minimalist apartment after the war, which, though sparsely furnished, was tastefully decorated. His place had been chosen to be that way, and Harry’s place is...well, it’s practically empty. There are no photos, no art pieces, no color anywhere in the place. Everything, it seems, is slightly dirty, as though Harry hasn’t cleaned much of anything since moving in. There are old food wrappers strewn about and dishes piled high in the sink. Draco is shocked; whatever he has been expecting, it hasn’t been this. He meets Harry’s eyes.

_Break_

Harry watches as Draco looks around his place, and is filled with shame. This life of his, it’s...so empty. There is no sign here of the man he used to be; there is just this new person who’s a grade A slob who can’t be bothered to clean up after himself or give a rat’s ass about anyone but himself. 

Draco looks over at him and Harry feels his face turn red. “I want you to leave,” he manages to say in a surprisingly steady voice, one which belies his vast insecurities and discomfort. 

Draco takes three steps over to Harry and closes the gap between them. They are so close now, closer than they’ve been in years, at least physically. Harry can see the small worry lines on Draco’s forehead, signs of his stressful job and the...the hazards of raising a small child. He vaguely wonders if his worry lines will change, without his boys to chase after. They are still there, though. Each mark a sign that he once loved two children more than he had ever loved anything in the world. 

“You don’t want me to leave,” Draco says quietly, and Harry can smell the beer on his breath from the pub. 

“Yes, I do,” Harry says, his eyes meeting Draco’s.

“It’s been a while, Harry, but I still know you better than almost anyone,” Draco says, and his words send a chill down Harry’s spine. It’s not unpleasant. “I know you, Harry. And I know that you’re so fucking lonely and _sad_ that you’re about to break in two.” 

Harry’s breath starts to hitch, and he wills himself to calm down. He can feel tears backing up in his eyes, and he realizes that he has forgotten that this is what Draco can do to him. Draco can make him see things, make him be honest with himself, and these last eight months he has been lying to himself so deeply. 

“Look at you,” Draco mutters, and reaches a hand out, running it through Harry’s hair. “When’s the last time you had a bloody haircut?” Harry shrugs. 

“Draco, I--” Harry’s words are cut off by a kiss. It’s deep, and passionate, and _Merlin,_ it feels good. He is surprised by it, but not too surprised. Draco has always been drawn to despair, and he feeds off of neediness. It is a Malfoy trait, but unlike his parents, there is no malice behind Draco. Harry does not feel taken advantage of, and whatever happens between them, he knows that it is mutual. 

He snakes his arms around Draco, deepening the kiss, and then Draco slides his hands down Harry’s body, settling on his waist. Harry breaks off the kiss and lays his head on Draco’s shoulder, marveling at how good it feels, how right. As if he is no longer Ginny’s husband, his children’s father, but just a boy again with his lover, engaging in passion with a forbidden foe. Their relationship has always been about danger and rules, and it still is, after all these years. 

“This feels good. I haven’t been touched in a while,” he admits in a small murmur, and Draco smiles. 

“I haven’t either, if I’m admitting things,” Draco says simply. Harry kisses him again, and before they both know it, they’re heading off to Harry’s bedroom. They are moving fast, but they always move fast. Draco pushes him down on the bed and starts to remove Harry’s button-up shirt, and the plain shirt underneath. Harry tugs off Draco’s dress shirt, and they are twined together. 

They are pawing at each other, kissing and biting and licking. Harry is starting to wonder if they will move farther than that when he realizes Draco’s gaze has landed on his bedside table. Harry hasn’t given much thought about his lifestyle in the moments since things have turned physical, but he is roughly drawn back to it. 

“What’s all this about?” Draco asks gently, gesturing to Harry’s bedside table. It’s loaded down with food and wrappers. There are empty chip bags, sleeves of cookies, and a cake from a bakery. Harry is blushing. 

“I, I just...I sometimes get hungry while I’m reading in bed, you know,” Harry says, trying to distract Draco by kissing him again. But Draco has never been easily distracted, and he’s intuitive. He looks down at Harry and shakes his head slowly. 

“That’s not what this is,” Draco says softly. He sits back so the two are apart again. “You’ve gained weight,” He says, gently touching Harry’s midsection. Harry closes his eyes. “Nothing wrong with that, of course, you look fine, it’s just...what’s going on?” 

“What do you want me to say, Draco?” Harry says angrily. And that’s what he is, suddenly, he’s angry, because Draco is asking him questions he doesn’t want to answer, and he’s being insistent and it’s been ages since anyone cared enough about his life to ask questions. “What do you want to hear? Do you want to hear all about my sad sack of a life? How I go to a meaningless job that doesn’t matter and I don’t speak to anyone, then I come home and I stare at my TV for three hours, alone, before going to bed? And how sometimes I just feel so fucking _empty_ that I have to fill myself with food, okay? That’s what I do. I eat and I eat because my life is so empty because everything’s all fucked up! And it feels good, to be full! And because of it I’ve gained almost 40 pounds but I don’t care because I don’t care about _anything!_ I don’t care about my job or this place or my body or myself! Is that what you wanted to hear about? You barge into _my life_ , into _my flat,_ and you start up...whatever this is, and now you’re just prying into parts of my life that aren’t any of your business!” Harry is screaming at Draco, screaming things he hasn’t ever said aloud to anyone. 

Draco just regards him cooly, and says, “Yeah, actually, that is what I wanted to hear. Because it’s the fucking truth.”

And just as suddenly as his anger came on, it breaks, and so does he. He is crying, gut-wrenching sobs that are raw and rough, and Draco grabs onto Harry tightly. He folds Harry into his arms as if he’s a small child, and rocks him back and forth. He kisses Harry’s head, he murmurs into his ear those things you say when there’s nothing you can say. 

They stay that way until Harry’s sobs subside, and he is just still and quiet, occasionally hiccuping and drawing in deep breaths. “I miss my kids,” he murmurs into Draco’s chest. 

“I know you do,” Draco says quietly. 

“Why did Death have to come for us? I loved them so much.” 

“It was an accident,” Draco says. “Accidents happen, and yours was a tragedy, but it wasn’t anyone’s fault.” 

Harry looks up at him. “It was someone’s fault, it was my fault. I looked away for two minutes. I was laying out a picnic lunch for them and when I looked up, they were gone. I told them, Draco, I told them to stay close to Daddy because they couldn’t swim until after lunch. And they snuck off while I was laying out the food.” 

_Harry is no longer in the bedroom with Draco; he is back at that sunny summer day when his children died. The concept of Death had been familiar to Harry; it had been around his whole life. But he had never dreamed, in a million years, that Death would come for his kids, not when it had already come for so much from him. He is reliving those moments, and they are as vivid as a movie in his mind. He is calling them in from the water; he is tugging off their tiny arm floaties; he is telling both James and Albus that they can’t go back into the water until after they’ve had lunch and relaxed for a while. The boys are pouting because it is a beautiful day and they love to swim. Harry turns for what feels like mere moments, and then he hears splashing and a tiny, anguished cry. He races into the water, searching for his sons._

_And he is too late._

_By the time he finds them, Death has stolen them back._

“It could’ve happened to anyone, Harry. It could’ve happened to me, or Ginny, or Ron, or Hermione, or any parent. Your biggest crime as a father is that you looked away,” Draco says, rubbing Harry’s back gently. 

“That’s a big crime,” Harry says softly. 

“You should go see Ginny,” Draco says abruptly and Harry pulls away from him. 

“Ginny?” 

“Yes, you remember her. Your wife?” Draco asks slyly. 

“What could I possibly say to her? I left her when she needed me, I left her so I could be alone and…” 

“She might understand, you never know,” Draco says, and, as always, he has a way of making it seem so clear-cut, so simple. Harry misses Ginny, he does, and he realizes, he misses his friends. Seeing Draco has broken the barrier he’s built for himself away from the world, and he is suddenly desperate for those people. 

He kisses Draco sloppily and lays his head on his shoulder. He has been a poor husband, and doing this with Draco will be another mark on his record. But he had been so lonely, and so sad. 

Draco has woken him up.

_Break_

It takes Harry two weeks and countless admonishments from Draco to work up the courage to go back home and see Ginny. 

He finds himself on his old doorstep in the middle of the day on a Wednesday, and he hopes she’s home. He still has his old flat and his old job in London waiting for him, if he needs it. He has no idea how she’ll feel about him being there, and he won’t blame her if she wants to slam the door in his face and never speak to him again. 

He rings the bell and waits, his heart thudding in his chest. 

“Coming!” He hears her beautiful voice call from inside the house and he closes his eyes briefly. Damn, he’s missed her.

Ginny opens the door with a smile on her face, one which fades as soon as she sees Harry. 

He tries to give her his own small smile. “Hey, Gin.”

“Harry.” She says quietly, and looks down. He does also, and that’s when he sees her big pregnant belly, a sign of things to come.

_End_


End file.
